Our Obsession
by ToQuenchAThirst
Summary: What is your obsession? What drives you? What possesses you? What stokes the fire you burn in and wake in ashes from? Naruto and Sakura have just one. Just one, which is more than enough, and it comes in the form of a man with black hair and a pale face. Updated:Two-shot?
1. Prologue

**Author's Note:** Naruto and Sakura's feelings are mixed and told almost as one. This is told in 2nd person. I'm gonna be honest, this piece was some rambling bit about obsession I wrote. I then converted it into a fanfic. But seriously, some episodes of Shippuden get me thinking, damn! Naruto and Sakura are waay to obsessed with Sasuke. What if that wasn't healthy? That's what this piece reflects.

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Naruto. I also don't own the concept of obsession, it exists independently of me.

 **Our Obsession**

You, the boy-are bowed, your golden sunshine hair blended with pain by the wind.

And You-the pink-haired girl, stand.

The hardest stance to keep when you would fall over and wail at any given moment.

But you don't. You need the illusion of strength, in front of your dearest friend who is curled in a ball, weeping his eyes out, the sounds almost animal to you.

Obsession is like the tendrils of stubborn ivy. It adheres faster and firmer in the heart then the way wild tangles climb and stick to an old building. Growing more snarled and bold within the heart chambers as time passes. Soon you can't tell where obsession began and you ended, so entwined you've become, attested to by how numbed your mind has become, drunk on thoughts of one and only thing.

That which is the object of your obsession.

Your mind doesn't swerve except to land you right into the realm where 'it' is. Who or what, it is always a part of you. Your heart buzzes and sings and reacts to nothing else as strongly and or with such poignancy as 'it.'

Or _him_.

Black hair, a ghostly complexion and a smirk that you would turn your eyes out to witness again, just once again.

Something heady like a drug that you breathe in which seems to fill you up in a single moment. How can this be bad? You question for a second. It is merely something that stirs the blood within your veins in a hot and cold rush.

Images of you standing like a reed bent and blow by the wind in your most vulnerable state.

Night, the sound of an owl or other midnight creature which pierces the darkness with its cry as you stand tears gushing from your eyes. You the little girl.

And you the little boy-the little boy you are inside your heart no matter how much you've grown.

The pair of you, know yourselves.

Know what turns your mouth up and releases all the emotions in a violent spectrum of color—in one name.

One single name. Two syllables.

' _Sas-uke'_

You have to wake up sometime. It is wrong and you know it.

You can't be on 'it' like a drug, every moment of your life.

Chasing, chasing. It has to end.

Because lows come with the highs.

Very low, lows.

You have made _him_ your world, your being, your soul, and the subject of your mind's eye.

When something that isn't naturally a part of you becomes adhered to your skin. How do you think it will feel when it's ripped out?

As it rips itself out of you and vanishes in a torrent of flames.

You know it will be a pain where the world ending would go unnoticed by you.

The planets melting and falling in your own realm would hold more attention than the outside world.

You have existed then inside yourself.

Chanting the formula of that man's name.

The world may have grown harsher because you have gotten use to your own inner jacket and forgot to don a real one.

What is real to you anymore?

You are so cold.

Your obsession is your God.

The power of your desire and obsession and want become your higher power.

Commanding you to worship it with every motion of your limbs and tick of your mind.

That is submitting. You've submitted to it so fully that worship and reverence are the only ways to convey how deeply you are aware of it.

You—the blue of skies in your orbs, fail to see without clouds obscuring their view.

You get to the point where you start to lose your sight. Not physically, but emotionally, mentally. You don't know what matters anymore, because nothing matters except 'it'.

Anyone who stands in your way, is moved.

Even the world.

You move the world for 'it'.

But 'it' will not stand being moved, so it pitches you until you are upside down and out of yourself.

You don't care and toss yourself to the hottest flames, because you can't feel anymore, and everything else is cold to you.

 _It's my way._ You convince yourself.

You wake with it on your mind, and somehow during the course of the day it's on your lips, it's in your head.

 _Sasuke. Sasuke-kun._

That is your obsession.

You lose sight of your physical self, only moving and acting to survive and not to live. Because you don't live, not without it. You don't live, except when it is present. And when 'it' leaves, you die.

You feel somewhere deep down, a pit growing. So vast and so deep, but you try to cover it up, and it spreads. You feel there is something wrong.

It's the feeling of being a slave to something that utterly controls you.

You can't sleep without it. You can't breathe without it.

Your life becomes stagnant. You only learn the things that help you sustain it. To help you _protect_ it.

And so you become almost non-living.

Why has the radiant blue of your eyes been drained? And why has the tinge of pink in your hair become pale?

You can't thrive anymore. You only know the same routine.

 _Train. Find him. Train._

The same tick-tock of obsession.

Your heart beats in time with it.

Oh, obsession, sweet juice of obliviousness.

You inhale and gulp it down in one sitting.

Hope.

You can't delay, it is too sweet and you need it too quickly in your veins.

You want it straight-lined through your system, want it to pass the blood-brain barrier with resounding speed.

Before long, you are a slave. The most pitiful of slaves.

You are made of rags, and the sun on your skin blows you to the wind.

You've become ashes.

You are obsession and gone in a flash-cinder together.

That is all the future will hold for you.

And a pitiful stain remains where you once were.

The saddest thing is that no one remembers you except that they recall the thing that drove and possessed you, some 'it' that was unworthy. But like the breeze they will glance up for it for a moment then move on and resume their day.

Don't you wish you could've created a ripple?

But you didn't.

Obsession wouldn't allow you.

He was too callous a master.


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Naruto and all characters belong to Masashi Kishimoto. I am just dipping my feet into it all. I don't own any of it.**

 **Our Obsession**

 **Chapter 1**

The first time she had seen him, he'd been in a throng of classmates, the brightest light. The most noticeable of all, a shiny star held up for all to see and praise.

She had been one of the many admirers, and like them she had thought herself the one who felt the most fervently towards him, and thus the one who was deserving of him above all else.

The wind stirred the pink strands of her hair, the short crop she sported marking the new season in her life.

Her hands callous from training, her heart worn from the constant fluctuations of hope and disappointment.

Sakura Haruno wore a smile, but it wasn't the smile she wore at age 12, or at age 14. It was the haggard, tired smile of a sixteen year old girl who had known too much so soon, beaten by the Shinobi world as she tried to stand on her own, but always found that her legs were never strong enough.

Her words were never the right words, her timing was always off, and her help was never what was needed at the moment. She was in the background, like music in a store, never the main feature.

She was a cliché, the smart just-pretty girl with the large forehead. The girl who had all answers in class. The childish fanciful girl who was too vain to notice humble people, but who hurt easily the modest souls around her. Although, she herself was fast to feel the lick of pain when she got what she dished out to others.

A complete cliché of vapidness as she chased and daydreamed about the dreamy crush of a boy in her class.

That boy who was the best student admired and envied by all.

Oh, and yeah, of course with his Adonis' face, he felt the others were far beneath him. Arrogance.

The boy strut around with his hands in his pocket, with brooding good looks and with just enough carelessly thrown 'Hmpfs' to make a girl create a mysteriously romantic figure out of the empty spaces of his personality, which he didn't care to fill in.

Sakura Haruno sat in her room, staring out at the stars for the hundredth time of her existence, feeling very small as she often did, and with a fierce glare in her eyes which were there to convince herself that, no, she was different now. She had to be, and yes, she would do something next time, of course.

How could a boy with a face like moonlight and hair like the night. He used words like weapons, and they were sharp when they cut her. He had become the most perilous test of her life.

She was the girl who shouldn't really have been where she was, sandwiched between two teammates. Two boys who had the greatest brimming potential, chosen obviously by destiny and lineage while she was just there hanging on by a thread and not of any importance.

She was just a cliché, a voice to scream the obvious things, to feel the same formula of emotions felt by all teenage girls of a certain age with no obvious qualifications.

It had all started as a simple crush, the declaration of a normal adolescent girl had now turned into a lifelong burden, she now carried on muscled shoulders. She was the first to admit she had an eagerness to masochistically dive headfirst into danger without much to sustain herself but an ability to heal, for which in the midst of a brutal battle made no never mind to either opponent nor ally.

Sakura got off her bed, dressed, and put on her gloves.

Time to get back to the routine that rung her heart inside out.

To search for the boy who didn't want to be found, spend the time she didn't have, and find out anew how many other things there were in this world that she didn't know, couldn't understand and would never accomplish.

At least she had a partner in this cycle.

And he was the most persistent of all.

* * *

The first time he had truly seen him was sitting at the docks, staring out at the waves with the most poignant sadness his small heart couldn't put a name to.

A boy with hair like a crow's wing seated at the edge of the water, ebony eyes forward, flushed empty so they appeared like holes in his young pale face.

Naruto hadn't known anyone could mirror the loneliness he felt inside his 7-year old body, but this boy not only matched it but surpassed it.

And as boys have been taught since the beginning to time, to behave as if softer emotions were an inherent weakness they avoid displaying, the young blonde boy easily adapted this notion as he neglected to let out the sea of words that coursed through his belly as he strode by the docks on his way to nowhere and no one in particular.

The sunset sizzled on the horizon with a red tinge that splashed out into the atmosphere, creating a picture that would be etched into his skull for years to come.

It would be a memory that would hurt him. A memory that would would give him warmth and assurance. A memory that would give him clarity in his darkest hour and seat confusion in his breast all at the same time.

His deep azure eyes were narrowed with a concentration, not particularly shown across his whiskered cheeks as they were drawn sullenly.

The memory would end as the two kids noticed one another and recognized what they couldn't say—their similarity—but turned their faces away from one another, a denial. A moment that could perhaps save them, at some forwarded time, but for years would cause an ache of regret to accompany the remembrance and little else.

Naruto opened his eyes, sixteen and awake now in more ways than one. He raises from his bed and as he thinks of his dream-memory, reality sweeps in.

A picture frame is on his dresser; his hands instinctively find it in the dark and grasp it hard.

He doesn't need to be able to see it, to know what it contains. It's there in his mind's eye, always. A focal point for everything he's been doing and everything he will do for years to come.

The blonde checks his supply of weapons, straightens his headband and wears that resolute smile that is his signature.

He is the dead-last of his class, the _U_ _suratonkachi_ , everyone avoided like the plague. The boy with wide cerulean eyes that felt every bit of the stab from the cold glares from the villagers, who ignored this and dealt with the pain through mischief.

The boy with the messy blonde hair who talked too loud, walked without refinement and did the most outrageous things to gain attention and made no apologies.

He could see himself clearly sometimes.

He tried to smother the loneliness from inside him every night he sat alone eating his dinner. The only sound the rustic fridge shaking out ice.

But loneliness stretched her wide arms and hugged him, his heart empty, his eyes wide and searching, hungry for affection.

Morning spilled her soft dress over his face as he woke. He would drown out the rattling silence with his boisterous declarations.

He settled the picture frame back in its place. He had found a purpose now.

And he'd pursue it to the end. He would take back the thing which had brought him a flicker of light in his darkening world.

He would be good for that much, at least.

* * *

They met at the gates at dawn. They didn't look at one another. They only looked forward. After all they only had one goal, one single-minded obsession that sparked from the spaces of their hearts they needed fulfilled. The boy they couldn't forget had done something to them, irreversibly.

And they could hope, That person had taken a part of them with him as well as he went on his cold and lonely journey.


End file.
